Days Like These
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: Consideration: Call the Doctor. Further Consideration: No, don't do that. (future!AU)


/Another imagery based fics bc I love imagery idk what else there is to say. Also another sad future au. :-))))

Admission, Pathetic: Loneliness is inescapable.

Admission, more pathetic: He misses the doctor.

Admission, the most pathetic yet: The doctor would talk to him if he called.

Charlie considered the contents of his cup, ice cubes swirling around in the amber. The ice was mostly melted for his not drinking it, looking like tiny semi transparent teeth. He stuck his finger into the drink, and created a tiny whirlpool in the water, the ice cubes clunked together in the middle of the glass, caught in his man made act of nature.

He picked up his cigarette and took a drag, the tiny crackling of paper caught and amplified in his silent kitchen. His clock is stopped at four forty four. It's been stopped for three days and three hours, but he likes the three fours in a row so he hasn't bothered with changing it yet, as much as he misses the ambient tick tock of the gears on the inside as it struggled to keep up with the time, constantly slipping further and further away from the actual time, lost to something as avoidable inefficiency.

His watch fills the silence, it's own even tinier tick tock creating a noise he otherwise would not have heard. He does like this watch, it's quartz, good quality. He's had it for five years as of last Tuesday. On the back is engraved 'To Charlie, from Lucien and Jean' in a tiny and neat sprawl of cursive around the outside of the circular face. It had been a birthday gift, in it's box wrapped in shiny blue paper and tied with a bow. He used to annoy Lucien by having to unpeel the sticking tape slowly and then fold up the paper. He did it slower when he found out the other man was annoyed.

Consideration: If he called Blake now, and spoke to him for fifteen minutes, then that would fix his lonliness issue.

Further consideration: Yes, it would, but it would also require talking to the doctor. Who you haven't seen since you argued with him six years ago and walked out like a child. Find a new plan.

He stubs his cigarette out in the glass dish, listening to the tiny hiss as it's tiny flame was snuffed out. He's always wondered what ash trays were made out of that didn't burn. He lights a second one, the lighter flint clicks twice, unable to set fire to the wick in his shaking hands. Third strike is the charm, the wick catches alight, the metal is warmed by his hand, no longer cold on his palm. He used to have an engraved lighter from Rose, as a thanks for saving her life once, but he threw it into the lake when they argued once and never saw it again. Serves him right, really.

Consideration: Call the doctor, say sorry, talk for ten minutes. That would fix his lonliness issue

Further consideration: No, he can't call the doctor, that bridge burned itself out years ago.

There are cases on his coffee table that he needs to read through and make corrections to before submission. His pen is sitting on the table, capped, on top of his notepad, which had several pages and the front pulled back. On the exposed leaf was shopping list. 'Eggs, lettuce, bread, ham' the joys of cooking for one.

Distantly, his fridge hums, it used to drive him made but he's sure he's gotten used to it, actually. It's a sort of tarnished yellow and green colour that was a lot nicer when it was installed, probably. The silver handle is tarnished, and it's slightly wobbly on its legs. Inside, was his milk, what was left of his bread, six eggs in a cartoon, a jar of strawberry jam and a sick of butter. He rarely brought more then what he needed for the week. His landlady was a kind old woman and if he died suddenly he didn't want her to have to deal with too much in his kitchen, especially if no one came for so long it was spoiled. That would be bad for her.

He took a sip of his drink: It hurts. He's never been much of a connoisseur like the doctor was. He was more of a if it gets me drunk I don't care type and he's sure that it shows. But it's fine, because it is doing just that in the sense of taking the edge off. One glass on a work night, two on a Friday or Saturday. A bottle of wine was opened on New Years. On his birthday he had one and a half. Perhaps he truly was a control freak. If that were the case then Blake would be right. As he usually was.

Consideration: He could call the doctor, apologize, say he was right and talk to the doctor for five minutes, that would solve his loneliness problem.

Consideration: Yes, that would be what he would do.

He stood, got to his feet, went to his phone, and collected the blue plastic receiver into his hand. It was blue with a white trim when he'd brought it. It was stained yellow now, possibly from too much use. He put in the number, taking his time pulling the dial to and then releasing it, counting the time it took to go back to its original position.

The other end of the line rings once. He considers hanging the phone up, he's changed his mind. He'll go to the Masonic Lodge, talk to the men there, he doesn't have to put himself through his. Hell; talking to Rose would be better then this and Rose once threaten to kill him with a nailfile if he ever called her again.

The other end of the line rings twice. He can imagine the scene, Jean calling 'I'll get it' and hurrying to the kitchen to pick up the dated black earpiece of the kitchen phone that she refused to part with. Maybe there's new lodgers now, maybe they're also shouting I'll get it and also getting to their feet.

The other end of the line rings three times. Maybe Blake can tell that it's him, and is waiting for him to hang up because he's still mad with him. Maybe Blake doesn't care what happens to him at all, maybe he is truly as alone as he thought he was. He should hang up the phone and now go somewhere else. This is not worth it. It's inefficient, there's work to be done.

The other end of the line picks up. He waits, breathing down the line, unsure how to begin. Thankfully, he doesn't have to wait for more then a few moments.

"Lucien Blake's surgery." His voice hasn't even changed. It still fills him with that warmth, that comfort it used to. A voice that had soothed a million aching souls.

"Doc." Eloquent, well thought out. Perhaps he isn't as changed as he thought he was. The pause seems to go on forever, even though his watch tells him it's only a few seconds. Maybe he should have been more formal. Less formal.

"Charlie?"

He can't. He can't bring up the words to reply, they're stuck in his throat.  
"Charlie is that you?" The doctor is still talking on the other end of the line, but Charlie can't even summon up his apology. The blue plastic is suddenly menacing. His eyes sting with tears he never wept. "Charlie, are you still there?" He hangs up the phone, wipes his eyes briefly, looks at his glass, pours himself a second glass, (even though it's Tuesday) and carries it to his living room, where he opens his police report and collects a pen from his bottom drawer. The quicker he started work the quicker it would be done. For the first time he regrets not investing in a television, record player or radio. For the first time, the silence of his home is overpowered by the ricocheting "Charlie?" inside his head.

…

In Ballarat, a man sits at his desk all night long waiting for a call that he knows will never come.


End file.
